


The Sprouts and the Summer of the Snap-dragon

by Islanderlass



Series: Mum's Garden, Dad's Weeds, Bill's Sprouts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Bill Weasley, But he's not good at it, Children's literature tropes, F/M, Family Feels, Gen, Good Malfoys, Harry is a bad friend, M/M, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Other, Pre-Slash, Ron Weasley-centric, The Burrow (Harry Potter), The Malfoy's Abraxans Demanded their own tag, The Quibbler, The twins meet their match, Wizarding Culture, competent adults, single dads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 08:58:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17525699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Islanderlass/pseuds/Islanderlass
Summary: AU starting summer of First Year. According to Albus Dumbledore, the Alley Explosion of 1992 'only' killed a shopkeep and two Ministry Wives. It should change nothing. The Weasleys and Malfoys beg to differ.A story that has nothing (really) to do with Harry Potter. It's all about two men and eight children who mourn together, grow together, and build together.





	The Sprouts and the Summer of the Snap-dragon

**Author's Note:**

> My best friend has always been a Malfoy fan. I never really got it, but occasionally I do run across really terrific characterization of the Malfoys. There's a lot of Weasley/Malfoy fic out there, but oddly, there aren't ANY decent Arthur/Lucius romances. So my challenge to myself was to write a story in which Lucius was himself yet not evil. And then my friend said, "You should have the Malfoys fall in love with the Burrow" and, well, this happened. 
> 
> Heavily influenced by the Children's series of the 1940s. Y'know--Sugar Creek Gang, Bobbsey Twins, etc.

 

June 20, 1992

Arthur Weasley was having a simply splendid Monday. He hadn’t seen Minister Fudge all day, his wife was shopping for the owl they planned to surprise Percy with at his birthday dinner that evening, and he was in the process of conducting a raid at Malfoy Manor.

 

“Weasley,” said Lucius Malfoy. “Your…ill behaved…pets are leaving smudges on my wife’s favorite glass sculpture.”

 

Arthur strolled over to the man, grinning. “Now, Malfoy, there’s no shame in admitting that piece belongs to you. I can’t imagine your missus has any need for an enormous pink vulva, given that she already has one of those.”

 

Malfoy sneered. Malfoy, apparently, was also having a decent Monday. His sneers during the last raid had been half hearted at best, and this particular sneer was at least an 8.5 out of 10 on the Malfoy Sneer Scale. Arthur felt quite uplifted at the sight of it; these raids were such a chore when Malfoy wasn’t putting actual effort into terrorizing the Aurors.

 

“I’m astounded that you actually recognized it for what it was,” drawled Malfoy. “I would assume that your wife’s is rather marred beyond recognition after spewing out seven squalling brats.”

 

“Oh, ho,” said Arthur, “Sir, I know you are likely suffering a painful dry spell, given your wife’s Sapphic inclinations, but my mother raised me to be a gentleman, and I simply refuse to expand upon my wife’s exemplary anatomy to satisfy your base urges.”

 

Lucius’ sneer increased a tenth of a decimal in derision, and perhaps a full point in revulsion. Arthur wondered if the man insisted on wearing protective gear in the marital bed—it would go a long way to explaining why there was only one Malfoy son.

 

They watched as the Auror trainees carefully lifted the enormous pink glass object off its pedestal to check for…actually, what were they checking for? Arthur really did despair of the current flock of junior Aurors. It seemed like every year the DMLE churned out worse and worse candidates. Perhaps he should have taken that Academy job when he’d been offered it a few years back. No, that would have taken him out of the field. Just imagine teaching morons like these all day!

 

“Auror Morrison,” Arthur said mildly.“Might I ask what you expect to find in your examination of such an object?”

 

Morrison looked up from his notes. “Well,” he said, in a high voice, “clearly, it’s an obscene object. Even if it isn’t cursed, it obviously speaks to our suspect’s corruptive nature.”

 

“Ah,” said Arthur. “Or it simply speaks to his wife’s astounding lack of taste in modern art. And do I really have to remind you again that Mr. Malfoy is not a suspect—he’s a cooperative citizen eager to prove to society at large that he is, in fact, innocent of various wild accusations that anonymous concerned citizens imagine we need to investigate?”

 

Morrison bristled. “The Chief Warlock seemed to think they were worthy of investigation.”

 

Not for the first time, Arthur wondered if Albus was the same person anonymously tipping off the Aurors for the sole purpose of aggravating Malfoy. Why else would he even consider it remotely probable that Malfoy was keeping Muggle erotic dancers captive as some sort of interactive sex manual for his adolescent son? He sighed. “Morrison, the Chief Warlock is not your supervisor. You are currently wasting my time, and the public’s tax money, on an object that is considerably less magical than the biro in your hand.”

 

Morrison scowled at him. “This is a Muggle biro, Weasley.”

 

“Ye-es,” drawled Malfoy. “Goodness me, Weasley, is that one of the Muggle biros your twin imbeciles charmed to shrink testicles?”

 

The Aurors dropped the vulva. It fell to the marble floor with a resounding crash as the aurors frantically pulled out the biros they’d snuck from Arthur’s desk and flung them to the floor. Morrison squeaked and turned towards the wall, fumbling with his belt.

 

Arthur looked at the chunksof pink glass littering the foyer floor and then at Malfoy’s smug smile. “I suppose that was a very expensive piece of art.”

 

“Oh, yes,” said Malfoy. “Irreplaceable, even.”

 

“Stroke of luck, there, old chap,” said Arthur. “Terrible luck for Mrs. Malfoy, I mean.”

 

“I can’t imagine breaking the news to her,” said Malfoy.

 

“You should probably practice in front of a mirror first,” said Arthur cheerfully. “Bad news should never be delivered with a smile. Increases the chance of the recipient shooting the messenger, y’see.”

 

“I shall keep your wise advice in the forefront of my mind,” said Malfoy. “I want a receipt for this, of course, and all of the names of your team.”

 

“Naturally,” said Arthur. Oh, yes, this was a fabulous Monday indeed. Breaking priceless pieces of art belonging to wealthy donors to Fudge’s various philanthropies would certainly get these nincompoops yanked from the field. 

 

“Father,” Draco Malfoy rushed into the room. “Fudge—“

 

“Minister Fudge,” said Malfoy sharply.

 

“Right,” gasped the young boy. “He—he’s here to see you, and Weasley!”

 

“Mr. Weasley,” said Arthur. “Or, as I like to be called, Monster Hunter Extraordinaire.” He was somewhat surprised when the boy didn’t roll his eyes—Draco had been quite snide last week, probably because of his various run ins with Ronnie and the Potter boy. He rather missed the wide eyed six year old boy that had trailed after him as Arthur checked the linen closets of the Manor for monsters. Ah, well. Children grew up far too fast. 

 

“Mr. Weasley,” said Draco. “I—I’m sorry, sir, Madam Bones asked me if any of your children were shopping with Mrs. Weasley today. They weren’t, right?”

 

“Shouldn’t think so. Shopping takes gold,” said Lucius snidely.

 

“Shut up, Father,” snapped Draco. “Just—for once in your life! I’m begging you—Mr. Weasley, he’s in the same boat as us, except—except it’ll be worse, if his children went shopping.”

 

“What are you talking about?” said Arthur, as a strange sense of dread washed over him.

 

Madam Bones and Cornelius Fudge hurried into the room. “Arthur,” said Amelia, “Arthur, where are your children?”

 

“At home,” said Arthur. “Tonight’s Percy’s birthday, y’see and we’d planned a surprise.”

 

Young Malfoy started to hyperventilate. “Percy—the mummy’s boy, right?” 

 

“Draco,” said Lucius. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

 

“What is going on?” Arthur’s heart began to pound. Bones had that—constipated look she got when she was talking to victims’ families, and Fudge was twisting his stupid bowler hat in his hands, looking everywhere except at Malfoy and Arthur. “Minister!” Arthur lost his patience. “Tell me! Why does it matter where my children are?”

 

The portly man smiled nervously. “Er. There’s—well, there’s been an accident.”

 

Lucius grabbed Arthur’s arm, preventing the red haired man from breaking Fudge’s nose. “What sort of accident?” Malfoy hissed malevolently. “And stop smiling, you imbecile.”

 

“Not an accident,” blurted out Draco. “Someone—Father, someone blew up Eeylops. Mother and Mrs. Weasley—they’re—!” He buried his face in Lucius’ dress robes. 

 

“Molly must be all right,” said Arthur. “I just saw her not even an hour ago. She was fine—so happy when she brought me lunch! She needs to go home and make the cake, y’know, Percy likes strawberry cake, and you can hardly make it the day before—“

 

“Weasley,” said Malfoy. “I think—I think you need to sit down. With me. So these rather…scattered people…can gather their thoughts and explain why they felt the need to barge in so suddenly.”

 

“It’s against DMLE procedure to sit down during a raid,” said Arthur. “Section 23, letter a. It implies a familiarity with the suspect, and Merlin knows you wouldn’t want anyone thinking we were chums, Malfoy.” He was distantly aware of the fact he was swaying from side to side.

 

Madam Bones smiled weakly. “I think for once we can bend the rules, Arthur. Here, you may escort me over, and I’ll sit first.” She hurried to his side and steadied him. “Lucius—where—“

 

“The lavender settee is closest,” said Malfoy. “Just—get him seated.” He followed Madam Bones over and eased his son down on the settee next to Arthur. 

 

Draco grabbed Arthur’s limp right hand and squeezed it. “Weasley—Mr. Weasley, say something.”

 

Arthur wondered why the boy was looking so worried about him. “I’m fine,” he said weakly. “I just—I just need to see my wife.”

 

“You don’t want to see her, Arthur,” said Madam Bones gravely. “Just as the Malfoys will not want to see Mrs. Malfoy. I’m afraid—a closed casket service will be necessary in both cases.”

 

“Oh gods,” said Arthur wretchedly. “Madam Malfoy won’t like that—no one will be able to see the dress robes she chose for such a singular occasion.”

 

“Or her makeup,” said Lucius. “She’ll be so terribly put out that she cannot upstage plump, provincial Molly Prewett one last time.” The two men’s eyes met and they burst into overly loud, desperate laughter. 

 

When they had subsided, Madam Bones said, “I contacted Gringotts, and William will be portkeyed home as soon as possible. I also asked the Ambassador to Romania to go to the Reserve to fetch Charles. We’ll cover all the transportation costs, Arthur. I don’t want you to worry at all about that. Mr. Malfoy—do you have any family overseas that may be of support to you in this time?”

 

“No,” said Malfoy. “No, I can handle the arrangements. Well. If you might contact Stella Greengrass for me; she’d know better than I would what flowers Narcissa would prefer. Do you have any suspects? Is it possible our wives were deliberately targeted?”

 

“Now, now,” said Fudge awkwardly. “Is this really a time to be worried about that sort of thing—“ 

 

“Yes,” said Malfoy in a glacial tone. “Because Weasley’s hovel hasn’t got intact ancestral wards like the Manor. His minor children are home, alone—“

 

“Amos Diggory went to stay with them,” said Bones. “And we stationed aurors around the property line. Diggory thought you might want to tell the children yourself, Arthur, so he refused an escort. If you’d like company—“

 

“No,” Arthur shook his head violently. “No, the babies deserve to hear this from me. I need to go, before one of their friends writes to them. Malfoy—I would normally never ask, but I don’t think I can apparate now. Could I use your floo?”

 

“Of course,” said Lucius. 

 

“No, no,” said Fudge. “We brought you a portkey.” He handed Arthur a golf ball. “Diggory thought it would be best to close the floo, you know, so the children weren’t caught unawares. Password is ‘Homeward Bound.’”

 

Arthur clutched the golf ball in his fist and stepped away from the others. “Homeward Bound,” he rasped. He felt the familiar yank at his navel, and found himself standing in front of the Burrow’s kitchen door. They must have asked Amos for the coordinates, he thought. Else they would’ve chosen the front entrance that we rarely use. He pushed open the screen door and followed the sound of raised voices into the sitting room. There he found his five youngest squabbling as Amos Diggory tried to reason with them.

 

Percy spotted him first. “Father! Please tell Frederick that it simply isn’t appropriate to use Mum’s whisk in Ron’s hair. She needs it for my birthday cake, and she’ll be home any minute now!”

 

George, from where he was sitting on Ron’s back, said “Father! Please tell Percival that it simply isn’t appropriate to call his own brother by the wrong name.”

 

Fred spun the whisk in Ron’s hair as the youngest brother shrieked and squirmed. “I do hope you don’t make the same mistake at school, old chap, because you’ll not be made prefect if you mistook Minnie for the greasy likes of Snape.”

 

“Geroff,” shrieked Ron. “Dad! Tell them Mum will kill us if we don’t de-gnome the garden.”

 

Ginny snorted. “You mean she’ll kill you! She told you to de-gnome the garden as punishment for your History grade!” She was perched next to Amos on the couch, busily coloring in her Holyhead Harpies coloring book. 

 

“Children,” said Amos. They ignored him and continued to squabble. “Children, your father needs to tell you something.”

 

“Are we going out to dinner for my birthday?” Asked Percy hopefully. “If so, may I invite someone?”

 

“Who would you invite,” snickered Fred.

 

“A girl, obviously,” said Ginny, without looking up. The younger boys hooted loudly.

 

“We can go out it you want to,” said Arthur quietly. He couldn’t afford it, but—he couldn’t face cooking in the kitchen Molly had just—left—like she was going to walk in and resume her preparations any moment.

 

His children went abruptly still. No one spoke for a moment. “Dad—what’s going on? You know we can’t go out—Mum’s been planning Percy’s birthday dinner all week!” Georgehopped to his feet, and hauled Ron up buy the back of his shirt. 

 

“You all should sit down,” said Amos. “Look, I’ll step out and make a pot of tea, Arthur. Would you like that? I’m sure Laura would be willing to bring over a casserole or stew of some kind—“

 

“Amos,” said Arthur. His friend fell silent. 

 

“Kids,” Arthur’s voice failed him. He took a deep breath. “Kids. There’s been an accident. Molly—Mum—she won’t be able to cook dinner tonight. I’m—I’m sorry, Percy. I think your birthday dinner will have to wait.”

 

“Well, naturally,” said Percy. “We wouldn’t want to celebrate without Mother, would we?Although—perhaps we can take her some cake in hospital. That would cheer her up.”

 

“Cake always cheers me up,” said Ron, “But we’d have to make it and no one makes strawberry cake like Mum. No one.”

 

His siblings nodded vehemently, except for Fred who was staring at Arthur with a dawning expression of fear. “Perce—I don’t think—we can wait for Mum.” Arthur met his eyes and nodded slightly. Fred’s face turned ashen and George’s eyes snapped to Arthur’s face as well.

 

“You need cake that badly?” Snapped Ginny. “How can you think of your stomach when Mum’s been hurt?”

 

“No, it’s not that,” said Fred, his voice shaking. “Mum’s not hurt, Gin-gin. She’s dead.”

 

“Now is not the time for such a tasteless joke,” said Percy. “You should be ashamed of yourself, George!”

 

“I’m Fred,” said his brother vehemently. “And—you think I’d joke about Mum like that? On your birthday, Perce?”

 

“He’s not joking, I’m afraid,” said Amos. “There was an explosion in Diagon Alley about an hour ago.Dozens of people injured. Three fatalities so far. Your mother was—well, she was quite mercifully near the center of the blast. She never saw it coming.”

 

“And you just—just came in and let us talk about quidditch and school and my birthday,” said Percy. “How—how could you?” He sat on the couch and drew his knees to his chest. Ginny and Ron perched next to him, looking scared.

 

“I thought it would be best that you hear it from me,” said Arthur. “It’s not Amos’ fault.”

 

The twins came over and hugged him. “Dad,” George mumbled. “Has anyone told Bill or Charlie yet?”

 

“The Minister has paid for their passage home,” said Arthur. “Well. I know it’s not ideal, Perce, but you’ll get to see your big brothers on your birthday. That’s something, right?”

 

His third son nodded woodenly, staring beyond Arthur at something only he could see.

 

“Dad,” said Fred, “Daddy—What are we going to do without Mum?”

 

“I don’t know, son,” Arthur’s vision began to blur with tears. “I just don’t know.” 

* * *

 June 21, 1992

 

Bill Weasley sat on the Weasley’s couch and stared unseeingly at the Family Clock. Ginny had long since burrowed into his side and fallen asleep. The old house was silent—too silent. Bill could almost hear his own thoughts. And they were, as always, organized in a list. Bill found making lists comforting.

 

Thought 1: He needed to return to work. He was only two days into his Journeyman assignment, and he’d worked so damn hard to get this far. He loved his job. He loved the work, the people, the place—the money—the proud way his dad and mum had fussed over him when he’d announced his promotion.

 

Thought 2: The babies weren’t taking Mum’s death well. They were just—just obeying. The twins had even responded to their correct names, earlier, when Percy had told them to put on their coats so they could go to the Diggorys for dinner. It was positively spooky.

 

Thought 3: When the babies snapped out of it, they’d go absolutely off the deep end. They were numb right now—when the pain, and fear, and horror of Mum’s death sunk in, well, Dad would need all the help he could get. He’d need someone to tutor the little ones when he was at work, and ride herd on the older ones during the summer. Gin-gin didn't even start school until September. That was near a decade until Dad would be able to stop worrying about the babies.

 

Thought 4: Dad wouldn’t take charity. That fucking Weasley pride. He wouldn’t take money from Bill, he wouldn’t let Percy get a job before he finished school. He sure as hell wouldn’t take favors from friends that he couldn’t repay. He’d take help from family, but Aunt Muriel was the only one left,she was a right harridan, and she was a Prewett—not a Weasley. 

 

Thought 5: Charlie hated being home, and Percy—well, Percy tried, he really did, but Percy let the others run roughshod over him. Neither of them had their qualifications, and if this interrupted their efforts, it could very well destroy their prospects. They needed support. 

 

Thought 6: He had his qualifications. He could tutor the babies. He could manage the twins—he actually rather enjoyed it. It was a challenge. Not like curse breaking, of course, but plenty excitement, anyway. Dad would feed him, one extra mouth was no stretch, and for anything else, he could do some side hustles.

 

Thought 7: If he stayed—well, the reasons he left were still valid. His friends would want to be around him all the fucking time—they wouldn’t leave him be! What if they found out—No, they wouldn’t. All he had to do was act normal. He could do it—he did before.

 

He’d been having this argument with himself for the last two hours. No matter how he sliced it—Dad needed him. Dad wouldn’t like it, but well, he could get around Dad easily enough. The old bean was mourning, and not at the top of his game. Bill looked down at his baby sister’s blotchy, tear stained face. His siblings needed him too. He couldn’t help them from Egypt, and—and—if he returned to his post, well, if another death notice came, he’d blame himself. Because Dad could die of stress, Ron could die of neglect, and gods, the twins could die because they were fucking morons.

 

Thought 8: No. No, he couldn’t go back to Egypt. And he hated himself, just a little for deciding that. Maybe—maybe this was what being an adult was like. If so, he wouldn’t’ve ever told his Mum he wanted to grow up.

 

He wanted to tell her that now, but now, it was too late. Because her hand on the clock had been taken off this morning, by Bill himself, and the other hands were all steadily creeping towards Bill’s and Ginny’s—towards Home. 

* * *

 

Arthur held open the garden door for his exhausted kids, and then came inside to see Bill sitting on the couch with his little sister curled up beside him.

 

“Evening, William,” he said tiredly, shrugging out of his cloak.

 

“Evening, Dad. How was dinner?”

 

“Fine. The Lovegoods were there, too. Luna missed Ginny.”

 

Bill nodded. “That might cheer our girl up in the morning, but she cried herself to sleep about two hours ago.”

 

“She all right?” Charlie asked quietly.

 

“About as all right as can be expected, Char. Listen—can you take her and the others upstairs? I need a word with Dad.”

 

“A’right.” Charlie bent to pick Ginny up. “Uh, you aren’t leaving tonight, right? Because—“

 

“Can’t you stay a few more days?” Percy interrupted. “Please? Look, I know you’ve work, and all, but—“

 

“Yeah, Billy, even Dad doesn’t go back to work until next Monday. ” said George.

 

“We’ll behave,” said Fred wheedlingly. “We’ll help around the house! I won’t turn Ronnie’s teddy bear into a spider for a whole year.”

 

“I don’t have a teddy anymore,” snapped Ron. “You blew it up, remember?”

 

“Quiet,” said Bill. The others subsided. “Fred, I catch you turning anything of Ronnie’s into a spider ever again, I swear, I’ll make Mum look look like a sweet, merciful angel. I promise I’d tell you before taking off. I just really need to talk to Dad alone, OK?”

 

“You think you’re all adult now,” said Fred. “Oooh, look at me—“

 

“Frederick Weasley. Your brother is an adult, and I cannot handle anymore of your nonsense tonight. You will go upstairs, you will get into bed, and by gods, you’ll be down here at six tomorrow morning, helping with breakfast. Do you understand me, young man?”His children nodded shakily. Arthur mentally winced at his tone. That was ol’ Septimus Weasley coming through, as clear as day. His father had never stood for nonsense—if you could walk and talk, you could help the rest of the family make ends meet. Molly had believed in giving her babies a childhood, but—Molly was gone, and Weasleys understood that children had to grow up into hard working adults.

 

“What do you say to our father, Fred?” Bill raised his eyebrows expectantly.

 

“Um, sorry?”

 

“No. Yes, sir, I will be down at six to help with breakfast.”

 

Fred looked around incredulously, but no help came from his siblings. He shrugged. “Yes, sir, I will be down at six to help with breakfast.”

 

“Thanks, kid. Go to bed, you lot.” After the six younger children disappeared up the stairs, Arthur took a deep breath and then went to fetch his scotch bottle from the spell locked cabinet above the sink. He got two glasses out of the cupboard, and motioned his son over to the table.

 

Bill sat across from him in the dim kitchen, staring. “Um. Dad. You never give us drink, and certainly not out of your stash.”

 

“That’s because I save it for adults,” Arthur shoved a glass towards him. “You talk to your baby siblings that way, and guess what, you’ve officially become an adult Weasley. No take backs.” He bolted back a few fingers of scotch, and then poured himself another glass. He looked thoughtfully at his eldest. The boy—man, Arthur corrected himself—had that set look he got when he came to a decision. Not the mulish look he sometimes got, when he wanted something he knew he probably wasn’t going to get. No, this was William’s “this is how it will go” look. Molly never could tell the two looks apart. “All right, son, what’s on your mind?”

 

“I have something to tell you, and I need you to listen,” his son said evenly. “And then before you say no, I want you to think it through. Because I won’t change my mind, Dad, and all that will happen is that we’ll both be hurting one other.”

 

“Okay,” Arthur took another drink. 

 

“You need help. I’m staying.”

 

Arthur wanted to get down on his knees and beg him to stay forever. Parents weren’t supposed to have favorites, but he was closest to his eldest. Billy was fun, logical, and above all, steady. But he knew Bill didn’t mean he’d stay permanently, and he knew it just wasn’t fair to keep him. Sure, the boy—man—would help, because Arthur had to return to work. But Arthur would still need to go to work in a month, and kids needed consistency. The sooner he found a suitable situation for Ron and Ginny, the better.

 

“I appreciate the sentiment, son, but—to be honest, it doesn’t matter if you leave tomorrow or next month. I’ll still be in a bind. It’s going to be a long,slow slog that won’t end any time soon.”

 

“I know. I don’t mean I’m staying a month. I mean I’m staying ’til Gin takes her NEWTs.” When Arthur didn’t immediately answer, he hurriedly continued, “I know y’might not want another mouth to feed, but I’ll earn my way, I swear. I’ll tutor the kids, I’ll take care of the Burrow year round, and we can take turns cooking. Or we can cook together! Um, I know I’m not Mum, Dad, and I’ll never replace her, but this is my family. I got good marks, I learned a lot in Egypt, and I can clean toilets as well as the next person.”

 

Arthur snorted. “Son. You got six baby siblings and there’s two toilets in the whole damn house. Make them clean the fucking loo.”

 

Bill gaped at him. “That’s—that’s all you’ve got to say?”

 

Arthur shrugged. “Look, when I was a kid, there were four generations living here. Molly thought we were just moving in until we could afford our own place, but Weasleys are strongest together. And I didn’t want her to end up like she did, raising seven kids by herself. I don’t want you to hate me, though, or resent your siblings. So if you don’t think you can hack it—if you think you can’t scratch out your own place here—well, you’d best go back to Egypt. I’d understand. I don’t want you putting your life on hold—and if you stay, I expect you to live. No telling yourself that next year, maybe you’ll have a bit o’money and you’ll do that or this or the other. Your mum did that, and I hated it. If Weasleys did that, why, we would’ve been dead and gone hundreds of years ago.”

 

“And you want to live.”

 

“I’m going to live,” said Arthur simply. “Dunno if want is the right word. But I’ve got the babies, and I’ve got my job and friends, and I wasn’t raised to lie down and die.”

 

Bill stood up and came around the table to hug him roughly. “I was worried. I love you, and I was worried that this’d break you.”

 

Arthur patted his son’s back. “Nope. Weasleys, we take a lot to break. I want you to stay, son. I never would’ve let you leave if it were up to me. Not because I worried like your mum—I just missed you. Every damn day.”

 

Bill straightened up, his eyes bright. “I missed you too. I really do want to stay. Love my job, but this is my home.” He offered his father his hand. “Captain and first mate? Roommates? Whatever? Care to shake on it?”

 

“Family,” said Arthur, gripping his son’s hand. “Partners in crime.”

 

“Weasleys,” said Bill, grinning.


End file.
